


Poppy Seeds

by Paech



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blood and Injury, Child Abuse, Gen, Orphanage, Other, That's A Lot Of Angst For A Three Year Old Baby, The Homestuck Epilogues: Meat, also vrissy's name isn't vrissy or vriska bc she wasn't adopted by rose and kan obv, inspired by moominpappa's memoirs, this is the only time you'll see me ever writing an hs2 fic, what's going on wit meat vrissy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-22
Updated: 2021-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-28 01:01:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30131607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paech/pseuds/Paech
Summary: An introspection on Meat Vrissy.
Relationships: Rose Lalonde/Kanaya Maryam
Kudos: 4





	Poppy Seeds

Your name is....

You don't know what your name is. At least, a proper one, rather than a number labelling you for easy distinction by Ms. Peregrine. You were plucked from the confines of the caverns and situated under her roof by the time your third wriggling day rolled by, and the young jadeblood, fumbling and indecisive of what to proceed with, thought it'd be best for you to be sent her way after she deemed you to be a little too old for the caverns and could cause a crowding for when the new batch of eggs hatch. When you met Ms. Peregrine, she beared an awfully sweet expression that soothed your worries, her posture tall and elegant with a burgundy dress that dusted the floors. She extended a white hand to you, for you to take and hold onto, so you wrapped your chubby hand around her hard palm and giggled. 

The jadeblood gave Ms. Peregrine a handshake, before she turned to you and gave you a hug, her accent thick on her tongue as she wished you well at Ms. Peregrine's orphanage and tapped at her eyes with her bandana, assuring you'd do swell there, better than being stuck in the caverns even. It gave you a better chance of seeking permanent guardianship. You took Ms. Peregrine's hand and smiled cheekily. 

Months later, you now sit in front of a wide television in a room full of other children. The screen displays a colorful animated movie all of you collectively agreed on, watching the orange mustached creature stomp about. Crayons splayed about the floor, visible stains on the rug left by clumsy children and their juice cups. You are no clumsy child though. However, you are certainly mischievous, and Ms. Peregrine remarks that. You are the youngest child to be living in the orphanage, so because of this you get knocked around easily. You usually wait until everyone has left the room, bustling the area and shoving the other, so you can walk scrape-free. Other times, you attempt to assert yourself, and try to shimmy and merge with the tidal wave of your peers, but only result in dismay. 

When Ms. Peregrine's voice rung out and alerted the children to come forth to the common area, these were those other times. You spring to your feet as the eldest children scoot off the couch, the others on the floor going twice as quick as you. Someone pushes you almost immediately, face planting to the rugged floor as the wind is knocked out of your tiny lungs. Everyone keeps passing over you and you figure it wasn't the right time to pick yourself back up just yet, not when an assemblage was happening just above you. When you gather the strength to lift your head after the last child fleeds, you sniffle, hot cerulean tears building up behind your eyes but you fight it. You are a big girl and you enjoy a little rough-housing anyways. 

Rubbing your eyes, you keep sniffling on your way to the common area, where the children stand in a perfect line in front of Ms. Peregrine. You don't stop sniffling when you get into your place, small seeps of cerulean threatening to leave the corner of your eye. Ms. Peregrine seems to notice on a whim, so she directs her attention to you, thus garnering the other kids as well. 

MS. PEREGRINE: Number Eighteen, why are you crying?

You don't respond for a minute. Impatience already sprouts on her face. 

EIGHTEEN: Fell 8ad. 

Ms. Peregrine nods her head, then casts a glance over the rest of the kids, who still and swallow hard. She traces her eyes over the group for a moment, before turning back to you. 

MS. PEREGRINE: Eighteen, I have told you multiple times before, you are the youngest and smaller than the rest therefor you must tread carefully around the halls, lest you get more scrapes. Now...

She starts walking back and forth, her hands folded behind her back. 

MS. PEREGRINE: Can someone tell me who tripped Number Eighteen?

Silence completely washes over. Glimpsing up towards the older kids, you don't see any of them move, only the small rising of their chests. Their eyes were glued to Ms. Peregrine, so unwavering, it nearly looked as if they were statues. Ms. Peregrine's annoyance bubbles and it's plain on her face; and her tone. When she opens her mouth, it makes everyone jump, including you, despite not being a suspect of your own injury. 

MS. PEREGRINE: Children, when I ask you a question, I expect an answer back. It doesn't have to be a long explanation, even just a quick reply is better than nothing at all. So please, I ask again as it is important: who pushed Number Eighteen?

Her words fall on deaf ears once again, and you notice an indigo boy to your left begin to shake. His colorless pupils size into small discs, fiddling with his hands intensely, grasping at his blue shorts as sweat droplets rapidly form and slide down his chin. His breathing starts to quicken when Ms. Peregrine lays her gaze on him, causing him to break. 

NINETEEN: | D|D |T MS. PEREGR|NE!! | PUSHED HER WHEN WE WERE RUNN|NG OUT!! 

NINETEEN: But - but |t wasn't on purpose, | swear!! | d|dn't see her until it was too late!! |'m sorry, Ms. Peregr|ne...

MS. PEREGRINE: Don't apologize to me, apologize to Eighteen. 

NINETEEN: |'m sorry, Eighteen....

EIGHTEEN: Okay, I guess. 

Ms. Peregrine walks towards you two, which only provokes his panic even further. She looks down at the both of you, but her attention is mainly on him, and he whimpers audibly. The air begins to feel warm, like you're being enclosed by the four walls encompassing you. Her gaze burns into him.

MS. PEREGRINE: You've only been here for a week, my dear boy, so I will excuse your mishap. You don't know and understand our rules very clearly yet to follow them, so it wouldn't be fair to punish an accidental pushing. 

At this, Nineteen quirks a relieved smile, but you continue to stare at her blankly. 

MS. PEREGRINE: But...

Nineteen's smile falls. 

MS. PEREGRINE: I'm still going to reprimand you from partaking any desert after dinner tonight, that way you learn hands-on rather than just from afar. 

NINETEEN: But - but - but, | d|dn't mean to-

MS. PEREGRINE: Nineteen, I have heard your side of the story and Eighteen's, it's clearly just a simple accident between children and that's not extremely punishable. It's only desert, you will be alright. The other children in this orphanage would find your punishment the most fortunate. 

He still continues to sputter like a broken record, but she waves a hand, signaling for everyone to head into the dining room. A human boy takes Nineteen's hand and tugs him along, you trailing behind them. But Ms. Peregrine catches you with a firm grasp to your shoulder, garnering you to whip your head up at her and meet her intimidating black eyes. 

MS. PEREGRINE: Eighteen, unlike Number Nineteen, you have been here for six months counting. You understand the rules and your own limitations, so you should be able to abide by them without falter. 

Your ears swivel down, shame coursing through you as your eyes jump between the floor board, the brown walls, then back to her. 

MS. PEREGRINE: This is the fourth time you do not listen to my word about staying behind and waiting for your turn while the other children bustle about, you clearly know you're very fragile and get the most bandaids applied to you. 

You wrinkle your nose and scrunch up your brows, balling up your fist. 

EIGHTEEN: 'm not fragile.

MS. PEREGRINE: Yes, you are. You are only allowed three apple slices for dinner and then you make your way to bed. 

EIGHTEEN: 8ut I'm hungy!!!!!!!!

You accidentally lose pronunciation of your R's, something that happened to you frequently when you were agitated.

MS. PEREGRINE: Eighteen, do _not_ fight against my word. I better not hear another peep from you until tomorrow.

You puff up your face, then sprint towards the dining room. Ms. Peregrine offers you the three green apple slices from the many plates of variety. A steaming turkey sits in the middle of the table as the main course, while mashed potatoes, cornbread, and freshly prepared fruit surround it. Everyone chows down, while you look down at a napkin served in front of you three cut green apple slices. When you lift your eyes begrudgingly, a plate of grubloaf sits tantalisingly a few inches away from you, the smell pervading your nose and beckoning you over. Your eyes stay trained on the untouched piece of grubloaf and the way the ketchup finely drizzled on it, chewing on your first apple slice and attempting to imagine the taste in your head; though the sour juice squirting from the apple slice brings you back to reality, and you grumble. A desire of wanting to rebel bubbles up in you, fierce and unafraid, unafraid of what might happen, and it spurs you on with a curled grin.

You bring your other small arm that isn't holding an apple slice up on the table, trying to sneakily slide your arm across and latch your fingers onto the clean white plate. But when your eyes divert up above you, Ms. Peregrine glares at you, startling you to seize back your arm and tuck it underneath the table cloth. Your mission to get grubloaf was an unsuccess and you frown, hard. You don't turn your eyes up anymore to view everyone eating heartily, finishing your first slice and then moving onto the second and eventually the third. 

Once you're done, you assist yourself out of the chair and make sure the pillow that propped you to the right height for the table is still on, then make your way to your room. When you open the door, you're greeted with a rather empty room with only necessities, such as: two beds on each side of the room, a closet, and a mirror. The painting on the wall is clearly old, brown discolors against the white pigmentation. You didn't know that signified it _was_ old, only hearing it from the other kids whispering about it and comparing how boring their rooms were. Despite the second bed being present, you do not have a roommate. At night, it's only you and yourself and your dreams. You think you like that; back in the caverns, it was beginning to annoy you how the grubs never respected your own recuperacoon, climbing in when you're peacefully asleep and waking you when they're swimming about in the sopor. However, you do miss having a recuperacoon, and curling into the warm sopor and dozing off. Ms. Peregrine was out of recuperacoons when you came, so she settled you for a bed. You still throw fits about it. 

Changing into pajamas, you stare at your daily uniform, the boringness of it all. It only consisted of a beige shirt and pants, skirts being optional but you resided with the pants. A large, inked number was printed on the back of the shirt, which was your name, Eighteen. Everyone had their numbers printed on the back, going up to 19. There used to be exactly 19 of you, but Number Four was just adopted two days ago, leaving a missing hiccup between Three and Five. Honestly you only got good at numbers from counting at everyone's backs. You lay the uniform on the chair for Ms. Peregrine to come collect and wash as your stomach growls, then burrow into your bed and think about how much you hate this sleep structure. 

EIGHTEEN: (grum8le, grum8le)

EIGHTEEN: Stupid human 8ed......8leh

EIGHTEEN: So stupid....stupid 

EIGHTEEN: Dum8 8ed....rather e8t more dum8 apples...

EIGHTEEN: Stupid.....sstu...snnnzzz

_Silk material soothes against your skin, brushing softly on your cheek when you rub your head. It's warm, and secure, your talons getting caught into the material as you wriggle in place. The silk around you tightens a bit more, and you hear faint sounds of voices. Two voices dwelled above you, words sounding gibberish. You couldn't pay any less attention, only sinking your face more into the crook of whatever was holding you, wiggling again and emitting chirped murmurs. It was like you belong here. Something ghosts above your scalp, disgruntling you and earning more wiggles. Sounds of laughter suddenly hit your eyes, and get you to peek open your cerulean eyes and glimpse up. Two sharp fangs are the first thing you register in the blinding whiteness, then the two large horns, and the face the former things belonged to. Jade green stares lovingly at you. You've never met this woman before in your life, but for some reason a familiarity spreads in you and you involuntarily smile and turn into a puddle._

You shoot up, your eyes wide as plates, the back of your long hair bristling out. Your hands clutch onto your snuggleplane - you can't remember the human terminology for it - as you dash your eyes everywhere, making sure to look up above you and expecting to find the face floating above you. But you don't, instead you see the worn out ceiling. Your breathing is accelerated and you don't know how to stop it, every feeling in you telling you to call for Ms. Peregrine. Biting on the snuggleplane, though, helps you concentrate, claws digging into the cotton. 

Once your breathing eases, you look up above you again, before setting your eyes on the chair. Your daily uniform still appears crinkled and the way you left it last night, which was odd. Whenever you woke up, you'd see your uniform folded nicely and looking brighter in color. You wonder if Ms. Peregrine accidentally forgot about you. 

Carefully, you scoot off the bed, a shiver running up your spine when your feet come into contact with the cold floor. You stick your tongue out displeased, going to your door and opening it. You head over the bathroom, where only two kids are brushing their teeth. You join them and clamber onto a step, reaching to the sink and trying to grab your cerulean toothbrush, but your arms are too short to even reach the faucet. You grunt and whine, still attempting to grab ahold of your toothbrush, until the girl beside you grabs it herself and hands it to you. 

You acquiescely accept it and the small tube of toothpaste she gives along. It makes you feel weak compared to others, having to depend on your peers helping you for reaching things. You strongly believe, as you press hard on the tube and push out a plethora of paste onto your brush, it'd be easier to assemble if things were made to accommodate for your height. It's not your fault you're very young and small!!

After you're done washing up, your mind suddenly returns back to the jadeblood lady that appeared in your dreams. Who was she? It couldn't have been the other jade lady you've seen before; her face was more rounded and looked younger, while in your dream this lady had a more sharpness to her look. That ruled out the only jade you knew! Did you just...make her up? In your dreams? 

You ponder about this while staring into your oatmeal, your spoon unscathed still and moobeast milk full to the brim. You just can't stop thinking about it, you've never seen her before and dreamt like that. You don't know if she scares you or comforts you. 

MS. PEREGRINE: Number Eighteen, why aren't you eating? You won't be able to get a snack until lunch at 12pm, don't let it go to waste now. 

EIGHTEEN: 'm e8ting. 

You quickly dip your spoon into the porridge and put it inside your mouth, which gains a smile from Ms. Peregrine. Oh wait, now that your mind isn't clouded, you wanted to ask something.

EIGHTEEN: Ms. Pe....pewe..

MS. PEREGRINE: Ms. Peregrine. 

EIGHTEEN: My shirt and pants not clean. 

MS. PEREGRINE: Yes. 

EIGHTEEN: So...clean?

MS. PEREGRINE: I had to make room for Number Nineteen's uniform, as he is new, I want to make sure he gets a good welcoming. This was only for one time, I'll wash your clothes tomorrow night. Better to be selfless than selfish.

She pats you on the head and leaves it at that. 

Later after breakfast, you're back in the television room, with thankfully no one. The TV is on blast, though your attention is concentrated on your drawing. You scrawl the green crayon over the paper, making wide and uneven horns, then remember the little hook she had on one of them. You color in the horns with orange, next picking up black to fill in her hair, and then grab a purple marker for her lips. You think she was wearing purple lipstick, but you can't recall with serrated memory. The more minutes go by, it starts feeling like a fuzzy thought, and this jumbles your nerves. What if you forget that dream like all the others you've ever had? You don't want it to be erased from your memory, never to be tracked again aside from the drawing of the lady you made. It's starting to become harder and harder to figure out her face now, and this strikes fear into your bloodpusher. You've never met anyone who carried you delicately like she had. A fresh round of tears stubbornly knock behind your eyes. 

* * *

_You swing back and forth on your giant red ball, cackling as you swayed every direction your grubby body put weight to. You unrelentlessly keep swinging forward with new strength each time, grinning widely as you let yourself roll back, then pushed forward; only to slip off and face plant into the ground. You cry out, obnoxiously, into the white abyss. Your face is nearly covered with fat cerulean tears, but halt when a pair of hands gently grab you and lift you up, into familiar arms that felt warm and secure, just like the last. A kiss gets administered to the bruise on your forehead, and when you look up you expect to see the jade lady holding you so tenderly, but instead, purple eyes greet you with a black lipped smile, her face different and more human appearing. You're a bit startled, but the same familitary still floods you, every instinct in your body wishing to be closer with her._

_She gives you the same loving smile and presses another kiss to your hair._

Your dream gets interrupted by your body alerting you've had enough sleep, a groggy feeling spreading within you when you peel open your eyes. You lazily pick yourself up, rubbing your eyes awake and glimpsing at the chair, where your clothes once again appeared ragged. You stare blankly at it as your thoughts drift around the new human lady in your dreams, a lavender smell invading your nose and mind. You shuffle off the bed and get ready before breakfast was up.

You sit between a black carapacian boy and a bronze girl, with a plate full of pancakes drowning in syrup presented in front of you. You grab your utensils and try to slice through the pancake, but your wiggler motor skills only managed a chip off. The carapacian seated next to you taps you on the shoulder, and when you looked at him, he offered to cut your pancakes for you. He didn't wait for a confirming answer, snatching the fork and knife from you, then easily cutting your pancakes into chewable pieces. You attempt to hide your frown (you don't need help you're perfectly capable of doing anything), so you look to the other side of you, where the bronze girl chattered on like a machine, aimlessly lifting her fork up to eat the egg piece it stabbed. An idea pops into your head like a bubble, and you smirk. You take the pepper container next to your plate and squeeze onto it, licking your lips in concentration. You place your arm on the table and pretend to mind your business, then stealthy move your hand closer to the salt container next to the bronze's arm. 

In one swift motion, you switch out the places of the pepper and salt. 

As the bronze grasps onto the container without even checking its contents, you snicker as low as you possibly can go. She shakes the pepper onto her plate, cuts a piece, raises it to her mouth and then suddenly her eyes bulge. She spits out the egg and coughs hard into the air, while you try to smother your giggles with your palms. 

SIX: Ms. Peregrine, someone sw@pped my s@lt with pepper!! 

Ms. Peregrine examines the nervous crowd with narrowed eyes, to which you lose your mischievous grin on a whim. The waves of noisy chats all collectively die down, making your stomach churn. You were trying desperately hard not to quiver. 

Her eyes land on you and stay there for longer than anyone, your bloodpusher lumping into your burning throat as your hair went on edge. The light in your eyes snuff out when the carapacian boy points at you. The expression she wears is something you've never seen on her face for the many months you've been here. 

MS. PEREGRINE: Number Eighteen, I will not tolerate bullying underneath this roof and you have lived here long enough to become aware of that rule. 

You shake in your seat, closing in on yourself as Ms. Peregrine practically glides over to you, leaning over you with an intimidating posture. You think your bloodpusher seizes to a stop when she firmly grabs onto the collar of your shirt, and you're dragged from the quiet dining area. 

Ms. Peregrine pulls you all the way to the front of your room, where it's cold and lonely, and places both her hands on your arms. The deep look she gives you makes your eyes prick with tears. 

MS. PEREGRINE: Eighteen, I've had enough of your trouble making tendencies, behaving this way gets applied to your records and is the sole reason no one wishes to take you in. With the way you act at such a young age, your future will look bleak and you won't have any direction in your life. 

She ushers you into your room, then takes your uniform off from the chair. 

MS. PEREGRINE: You're going to be reprimanded from food for the rest of the week, meanwhile you can think about what you've done. 

EIGHTEEN:...

The door gently shut behind her in contrast of her tone of voice; you finally weep. 

You realize you are alone. Your dreams are no longer pleasant; they're no longer warm, secure, and safe. You dream of metal fingers and glowing red eyes, a solemn look on a jade lady you recognize, the robot grasping at your dreams looking familiar as well, as the whetted thorns perched on her head glint in the everburning stars.

When you wake up, it's not morning, and the moon still drapes over you. You flit your eyes to the bed from across you, the sheets remaining neat and untouched, as they always had been.

You sniffle as you climb off the bed, shuffling out of your room and into the darkness of the corridor. You were nothing but trouble. You had a good chance of spending the rest of your life in the orphanage. 

You don't know why you act the way you do, apparently no one possibly does. You picture the jade troll and human woman, with you in their embrace and caressed safely as they whispered just how much they loved you. 

Your hand twists the knob slowly, trying to steady yourself on your tippy toes as you quietly pad into the bathroom. You place one foot after the other on the stool, then reach as high as you could strive to open the mirror. 

You wanted to seem like someone new. Not Number Eighteen, but a nice girl. Your tiny hand stretches up to its limits for the sharp end of the scissors. You've seen your older peers slice at their hair and seem so unrecognizable, like as if they were someone completely new to know. 

You want that too. You want to look new as well. Your finger tips touch teasingly at the stark coldness of the scissors, poking your tongue out in frustration. Your thoughts pervade with the jade and human ladies, envisioning them holding you and loving you and appreciating how short your hair looked compared to the tangled mop of rags, like what Ms. Peregrine had named it. 

When the scissors fall down from its position on the upper section of the mirror, cerulean spurts in fat drops and the frightening cold of the metal burrows into the warmth of a vulnerable eye.

Ms. Peregrine doesn't utter anything when she slides the cool wipes over cheek, discarding the blue stained napkin and pulled out another, lowering it to the center of your injury. 

It makes you freeze up and grasp at her arm, but she continues to wash over it, until the all the cerulean marks have stopped running down your face. She gets a gauze pad and bandage, assembling the two onto your eye. 

For the first time, Ms. Peregrine swipes her thumb over the tear threatening to trickle out, looking your face over to make sure everything was cleaned up. 

MS. PEREGRINE: No one likes a handful, Eighteen. 

She murmurs in a honey-eyed voice, brushing her knuckles over another tear forming at the corner of your now only working eye. 

The scissors get washed and sealed tight in a baggy. 

You sit up in your bed with your arms splayed before you and glance out at the window with your remainder of eight pupils, absolutely restless from the wake of the scissors pressure. The moon shines on you forgivingly, casting the stars into your room. You gaze into the night sky innocently, following the traces of stardust and the way it displayed on the vast stretch of the dark sky. You are small and nimble, so you wonder if there's bigger things than you out there. 

Your name is Vrissy Maryam-Lalonde and for the few hours you had to be spend being around your parents, it created a miserable pit in your stomach. Before they left on the airship to the church Jane Crocker was holding a funeral at, the only form of communication they held was short quarrels and tiresome looks. 

Your troll mother has a different, more begrudging and a bit jaded attitude. Before she left you with Vriska, Harry Anderson and his dad, she ruffled your hair with a simple smile that you're pretty sure you couldn't see past and a worn out glint in her eyes. Your human mother, who's rather contempt and level headed usually, frets and almost seemed like the worried scrunch on her face was permanent. Her other hand keeps a protective shield over her ring. 

You're used to your mothers generally being grossly affectionate, smooching each other deeply just to get on your nerves when you had Harry Anderson and Tavros over, dancing in the living room like the two disgustingly in-love old people they were. Seeing them this way was new, and admittedly, worrying. It hurt you and you hated that. Tavros could feasibly detect your distress over the situation, but you forcibly brushed him off each time. Before he left with them as well, he gave you an uncharacteristic cheek kiss for a kismesissitude. This only made you hate him more.

When you went to Harry, he tried assuaging you as well, which you refuted and pulled out your phone instead. Harry Anderson was possibly the sweetest guy you've came across, he was your in your red quadrant for a reason, but you're reminded with how dumb he was when he bumbled about how it wasn't actually so bad having divorced parents. You settle with Vriska's presence, which ultimately served as the better one. You honestly think she's the most badass version of you that you could ever wish for, sporting an eyepatch with unsmeared confidence hanging over her shoulders with every direction she takes. You wonder how it'd be like if you were in her shoes, to live without your mothers and everything you've known. What would change?

But now, you're stuck being a compulsory observant in your parents' ill at ease destruction and decline, perhaps soon to witness the flame of their love and family just vanish in the blink of an eye. Misery loves you apparently. 

Sometimes you wish Rose and Kanaya had never found you. 


End file.
